


fire & gold

by flightofwonder



Category: Captain Marvel (2019), Doctor Who (2005), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (but not explicit and she's fine), Alternate Universe - Marvel Cinematic Universe Fusion, Apocalypse, Blood and Injury, Doctor Who Series Three, F/F, Harm to Children, I think Carol Danvers is a lesbian!, look me in the eye and tell me martha jones is straight, takes place during the Year That Never Happened, the master is the worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23400325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightofwonder/pseuds/flightofwonder
Summary: Martha is in Louisiana when they meet.
Relationships: Carol Danvers & Maria Rambeau, Martha Jones (Doctor Who)/Carol Danvers (Captain Marvel)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	fire & gold

**Author's Note:**

> This is a seed of an idea I didn't think would come to formation, and I doubt anyone will be interested in it enough to warrant the multi-chapter idea I had. But since this was mostly complete, I figured I'd put it out there, just in case someone gets some enjoyment out of it.

Martha is in Louisiana when they meet. If you consider holding each other at gunpoint constitutes as meeting.

Martha does. She’s done this too many times to take it personally. The difference this time? The other person isn’t holding a weapon. They _are_ the weapon.

The imposing figure is coated in an armor that could almost be from earth if its sheen wasn’t so – for lack of a better world – _alien_ ; not quite metal or leather or anything a human machine can make. Their clenched fists radiate flickering energy with all the promise of a loaded gun. Martha doesn’t need to know what this is for it to be a threat.

(And how sad, a part of her thinks. She now aligns _alien_ with _dangerous_. It wasn’t so long ago it meant something else entirely to Martha.)

“I don’t want any trouble,” Martha tries. She _has_ to try, even though this often ends up the same way. Scavengers and bounty hunters are everywhere, eager to turn her in for a hefty reward. But she has no intention of being taken. Not yet, anyway. Her work has barely started.

(Two months. Feels like two years. Feels like two lifetimes.)

Martha keeps her gun raised as she speaks, even and calm, her finger not quite on the trigger. She knows how to use it… in theory. Despite what the rumors say, she is not a soldier. She got a messy lesson and a sawed-off shotgun from two brothers in Allentown who sheltered her before the Ravage. It’s for show more than anything else. She’s never even pulled the trigger. When threats fail, she runs. She dreads the day that running isn’t an option anymore.

(She will have to ask the Doctor what that day looks like when this is all over.)

The figure doesn’t move. It just stands there, fists burning like wildfire. Then, suddenly, they aren’t burning at all, and are instead raised in surrender.

“You’re Martha Jones.”

The feminine voice takes Martha by surprise, but their words aren’t anything new. It isn’t a question. Martha doesn’t put down her gun.

“You’re a doctor?” she asks, and that does take her by surprise.

 _Not yet_ , she would have said a lifetime ago. The _yet_ implies a future that now may never exist.

“Yes,” she says, tasting the lie on her lips. No, it’s worse than a lie. It’s something not quite true. _Doctor_ means only one thing right now, one all-encompassing thing, reverberating in every ear willing to listen - and she is not it. She doesn’t measure up, and that’s just a fact. It’s been spit in her face time and time again. It’s a truth she’s been living with long before she walked into that police box. She would never be enough.

Both a lie and an untruth in one word. What a sickening combination.

She is not a doctor. But she is all they have.

Their helmet flips open, revealing a shock of blonde hair and wide eyes, and suddenly all their intimidation falls off them like a fur coat come spring. She doesn’t look so alien anymore, not with that familiar desperation etched on every line of her face, and the despair in her eyes is overwhelmingly human.

“Please. Help me.”

She is not a doctor. But she is all they have.

“Show me.”

* * *

There’s a lot of blood, so she acts quickly. The deep settled instincts kick in, and if there wasn’t a teenager dying on a kitchen table, Martha could almost be comforted by how easily all of this comes back to her.

There’s no way to know what’s been hit, but Martha guesses by the fact that she’s not dead yet that the bullet didn’t hit an artery. That doesn’t mean that they’re out of the woods.

Martha slides her backpack onto the table and pulls out what spotty medical instruments she’s been able to find while jumping town to town.

“Disinfect these,” Martha mutters to the woman who brought her here, pushing a pile into her chest, “And put on the gloves.”

She looks at the other woman, the one with red eyes and red latex fingers where she’s still applying pressure to the wound, and she asks her what her daughter’s name is.

“Monica,” she says, and even though tears threaten to fall, her voice is all grit. _Her mother_ , Martha thinks. She recognizes the turmoil in her gaze, and Martha thinks of her own mother handcuffed and led away – but only for a moment.

“Hey Monica,” Martha says, voice honey sweet as she puts her own gloves on and moves to see the wound. “Love that name. I was almost a Monica, but they went with Martha instead. Lucky me.”

While she does this, the other woman disinfects her tools as best she can in their kitchen sink. There isn’t running water, and lamps and candles light the domestic space, but even those resources are highly unusual nowadays. Almost everyone in America has been forcefully relocated to the cities for population control, and those who escaped that fate, mainly the smaller rural communities, have been the target of raids just north of here. 

But this house still stands. That must have something to do with the fact that it’s technically invisible, surrounded by some sort of forcefield that woman could open and close at will when she led Martha through.

So, maybe not quite alien, but not quite human, either. Just the last in a long line that Martha has met.

Monica is sobbing, and her mother is stroking her hair, telling her _it will be_ _alright_ , and Martha is hit with a desire so strong, so instinctual, she almost buckles over the weight of it. In less than the second, she’s pushed it down and moved on.

“You – “

“Carol. And she’s Maria.”

“Alright, Carol, I’m going to need you hold her down.”

“Why?” Maria asks, the steel of a parent in her tone.

“There’s no exit wound,” Martha explains, hoping that is enough for them to understand. She doesn’t want to traumatize this poor girl more than she must.

They exchange looks, and Carol gets into position at Monica’s feet.

“Hey, Lieutenant Trouble,” Carol says, an easy smile on her face as she pats the girl’s foot. “You’re gonna be just fine. We’ve got the best in the business here to fix you up.”

Trying her best to ignore that last comment, Martha steps in for Maria and keeps pressure on the wound, then waits until Maria’s holding her daughter’s arms down, trembling.

“Now, Monica,” Martha says, lips strained with a smile, “I’m going to need you to be very, very brave.”

The child screams, and Martha wishes she hadn’t become so used to the sound that it barely registers.

* * *

Her hands are raw by the time she’s scrubbed her body clean by the candlelight. Maria was generous enough to let her use some of their water supply to clean off the grime of travel and the blood on her hands. Martha was frugal, and even river water that wasn’t contaminated was becoming harder to come by nowadays.

Apparently, it was during one of their water runs that Monica got shot. How they made it back undetected wasn’t clear, but Martha had a feeling it had to do with Carol.

Something about the way Carol looked at Monica during the surgery told her that she didn’t suffer anyone who hurt her loved ones. There was fire in more than just her fists.

(Fire, and ice, and rage. Martha knows what that looks like.)

But Carol could have threatened her when they first met, or just knocked her out cold and taken her hostage, exchanging her medical services for her freedom. But she didn’t do any of that. She _asked_. 

Martha pulls on her ratty clothes and walks back into the kitchen, where Monica is lying prone. Her black skin is still sunken from shock, but she’s breathing easily now. Getting the bullet out without hitting an artery had been a horrible ordeal, but she had managed to not lose too much blood, even after she inevitably passed out.

“She should be okay now,” Martha said to Maria, who was still sitting vigil by her daughter’s side. She hasn’t let go of Monica’s hand.

“Thank you,” she says, offering Martha a small smile. Even after everything that has happened that night, there was a certain dignity in her posture; even hunched over and exhausted, that wasn’t enough to break the way she held herself.

“Just glad I could help,” Martha replies with the best smile she can manage, which she knows isn’t very convincing. She used most of her reserves of placating energy trying to reassure a dying teenager. “Now I have to go. I need to make Baton Rouge soon, and there’s still some night I can use as cover.”

Maria gives her some of the food they can spare, which Martha accepts gratefully, before filling her knapsack and going on her way. She never stays anywhere more than a few hours when he can.

As Martha steps off the porch and watches the house dissolve into a lonely field at night, a small sense of disappointment lingers. There’s been no sign of Carol since the end of the surgery. Martha already had a million questions to ask her that she knew she’d never get the chance to, but at the very least, she wanted to say goodbye.

Turns out, there’s no need.

“Let me come with you.”

Martha has no idea how she managed to get the drop on her, but suddenly, Carol is right in front of her, glowing multi-colored suit and all.

“Jesus, you’re lucky I didn’t shoot you,” Martha hisses, ducking her gun back to her side.

“Wouldn’t have done anything,” Carol says casually with a shrug. “Trust me, I’ve faced worse than an old shotgun. Like, whoo, _much_ worse.”

“I’d imagine,” Martha whispers, trying to keep her voice low and wondering why they couldn’t have had this conversation _inside_ the invisible, soundproof house.

“You’re making your way north, right?”

Martha hesitates.

“How do you know?”

“Cause you’re… heading north?” The corners of Carol’s lips edge upwards, and it’s disarming. Disarming is dangerous, especially from somebody who is obviously well and fully armed.

“Let’s say I am,” says Martha, ignoring how the other woman’s smile only seems to grow wider. “Why would you want to come with me? Shouldn’t you stay with – them?”

Carol’s playful smile suddenly falls flat.

“I thought I should. At first. But turns out there’s a few new targets on my back.”

“Whoever shot Monica, you mean?”

Carol gave her a sharp look. “I took care of it. But still. I thought I could protect them if I stayed.” Her hips shift to one side, arms crossed in front of her. “Guess I was wrong.”

“You can’t predict every threat out there,” Martha says with some of that honey from before slipping into her voice. “And you got her back home and safe. That’s no small thing.”

This evidently surprises the other woman, as she stands stone still and blinks her wide eyes. She recovers herself after a second, and replies, “Sure, I guess. But it turns out I wasn’t doing them as much good as I thought I was. And maybe I’d be better suited helping you. As least, for part of your way.”

“Are you an alien?” she blurts out, all sense of decorum well and truly lost, and Carol laughs. It’s been such a long time since Martha has heard anyone laugh, but Carol’s laugh is warm and rough and _beautiful_.

“No, not alien. Born human. Still am, technically.”

“Right.”

“But I can help. I can be your muscle. The blasters, obviously, but I can fly, and I’ve got some alien tech left over--”

“And you haven’t tried to stop him?”

Carol doesn’t have the grace to not look offended.

“Of course I’ve tried!” she bites out, “But whatever… he did, that Archangel network? I can’t breech it. It created some sort of forcefield, and even my phantom blasters don’t make a dent in it. Almost lost a hand last time I tried. And that was in an area not _nearly_ as well-defended as the ship, so I’m sorry if--”

Hands fly up, her shotgun dropping to the side. “Okay, okay. I believe you.”

The act manages to convince the other woman to back off a little as Martha continues, “Trust me, I know how it feels, not being able to put a stop to him as he… well. Does what he does best.” She spits the words out like they are a poison in her mouth.

Something shifts in Carol’s face just then. “But you’re still trying to.”

It doesn’t sound like scrutiny or mockery. If Martha didn’t know any better, she would call it something close to admiration.

She looks away from it. She hasn’t learned how to stomach it.

“It will be dangerous.”

Carol smirks, and it’s one of those looks that you think should permanently belong on someone’s face. “The fact that I know your name even all the way out here is proof of that. I can handle myself.

“And I… can’t tell you exactly what I’m doing.”

She thinks about this for a second, chewing her lip, then nods. “Covert mission. Got it. As long as that asshat is getting dealt with somewhere down the line, I’m all for it.”

The Master. Martha doesn’t like saying his name aloud, either. She used to think the Voldemort and He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named stuff was a bit rubbish, but this is different. Saying the name he chose for himself, the _position_ he put himself in above the entire human race, feels like an affirmation.

There’s a name Martha needs the world to hear, and another she needs the world to forget. It’s a task so monumental, it’s overwhelming. How tempting, if only for a moment, to have another to shoulder it with.

“More to the point: I owe you.” The sentence comes out louder than she probably intended, clumsy and quick, and right away Martha can sense how difficult being this vulnerable must be for her, eyes flickering everywhere but right at her, torso rigid but still shifting hip to hip, almost an awkward pantomime of a dance. “If Monica had… I owe you, is all.”

Martha should refuse. She should turn her down, say thanks but no thanks, and march her way off into the darkness like she’s supposed to.

But Carol doesn’t fit neatly into the box of a task the Doctor gave her. A mystery, yes, and no shit Martha was weak for a mystery with a pretty face. But more than that, there’s something… familiar about her. Not the kind of familiar where you’ve misplaced a face you should know, but familiar in that way all humans are when you get down to it. The alien bits of her only served to highlight the woman she was: angry, desperate… kind. And Martha wanted to get to know that woman better.

“We might die.”

“We might not.”

Martha smiles, and reaches out her hand. This might be a bad idea, the worst idea, but Carol is right. Powers like hers could help in her mission. It would be foolish, really, to turn this offer down.

(And she could do with a friendly face. For a little while, at least.)

“Captain Carol Danvers, at your service.” Her grip is strong as she shakes Martha’s hand.

If both hold on a second longer than expected, neither of them says anything about it.

“Welcome aboard.”


End file.
